Crown of Empire

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “You’re right,” said Wiley, wondering if Lolana would aim to miss the way the rest of them did.

  And so the party became an interactive airtour of Undertown, where aliens and humans without jobs lived. Making up the group: four sports cars, high-priced; thirteen aristocratic teenagers, just plain high; and five patrol choppers, with nine bodyguards, highly stressed.

  Wiley Bouriere’s aircar was a very shiny brass Radeo 434 hyperlift with auxiliary stabilizers, the fastest and most maneuverable aircar available anywhere, and the envy of most of his friends. Caroly’s was a red-and-silver Kahna Worldwalker, the 800 series with the aerobatic modifications. The two of them performed intricate braiding patterns as they rushed around the tall buildings, never both on the same street at the same time. Thistlewaite was an excellent driver, but his aircar was not as advanced as Wiley’s and Caroly’s, and he lagged behind. Maytag lacked such reckless nerve and tended to stick to right-angle turns, executed at unpredictable intervals. Neither Thistlewaite nor Maytag was as high as Wiley or Caroly, of course.

  Caroly had Bentess Hull riding with him, acting as spotter, and a passenger, the brilliant and erratic Tonio van Lewat in the back.

  Wiley was showing off the Radeo to his three cohorts. Dov Sclerida and his flamboyant girlfriend, Crisianne Nemor, rode in the back, Dov firing his pistol and throwing glue-filled bottles. His third passenger was a girl whose name Wiley thought might be Nika, a pretty thing with bronze hair who wasn’t as into the partying as the others. Her idea of fun was a bit different. From time to time she reached over to take Wiley’s hand and place it on her thigh, but he always ended up with both hands on the steering bar as he attempted another spectacular and dangerous stunt.

  “Hey, look at that!” yelled Dov as he fired at a group of squat, four-legged aliens. They scattered as the aircar passed over them, the airpads stirring up half a dozen miniature tornadoes.

  “Endorites,” shrieked Crisianne, waving frantically as they passed over the group. They dropped four bottles of glowing paint on the shacks where the aliens lived. Her shrieks turned to giggles as the smallest of these collapsed, a brilliant purple sunflower blossoming atop the rubble.

  Thistlewaite and Maytag had found a group of locals apparently playing some kind of game, and they harried the aliens, flying dangerously low to the ground to drive them to run. One of their victims threw a rock at Maytag’s aircar and in the next instant one of Thistlewaite’s passengers had dropped a bottle full of flaming brandy on his head.

  Everyone in the arrears laughed as the local staggered and fell.

  Wiley rushed the Radeo up the side of the nearest building, to the level where the successful aliens lived. Here, Wiley and his friends did nothing more than stare in windows, for, alien or human, at this level the inhabitants could not be attacked with impunity. The aircar did a spectacular slow roll, and then once again they hurtled toward the shanties of Undertown.

  Dov fired three rounds as they leveled off just above the street. Then his ammunition was gone and he cursed the pistol before reaching for the last of the bottles to throw.

  Caroly and his gang whizzed by, Tonio releasing bottles of fuel every six seconds, aiming for the sideways. Wiley could hear Caroly bellowing a popular song, trying to compete with the roar of his Worldwalker.

  Another, larger aircar appeared ahead of Caroly, and behind it he could just make out a Navy assault boat, fully armed and blocking the intersection six blocks away. Wiley scowled. Who were they to interrupt his fun?

  Caroly’s Worldwalker balked suddenly, the rotors slowing. Caroly held the steering bar with all his strength, striving to keep the aircar from crashing. Only his autorotating fans allowed him to ride it down to the ground. He heard Tonio yell something, and then they banged into the street.

  Wiley stared at the wreck of Caroly’s aircar. He realized Caroly was down at the levels they had just buzzed, with no weapons. There would be locals waiting. Then he looked down the street in the opposite direction: another assault boat was closing in on them. More irked than worried, Wiley yelled to Dov Sclerida, “What’s your father up to now?” He had to hold the steering bar in this narrow street and could not point out the assault boats.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Dov, dropping a bottle of stinkbalm over the side.

  “Navy assault boats,” said Wiley, nodding in the direction of the nearest. “I make out six so far.”

  “I don’t—” Dov began, then broke off in alarm. “Where’d they come from?” he demanded as if someone was deliberately withholding the answer.

  “Look at them,” whispered Wiley, his pleasant intoxication fading rapidly. “What do they want?”

  The girl beside him reached over and grabbed his leg, for once without any seductive intent, her fingers gouging his muscles.

  ###

  Catching up with his charge’s group at last, Wiley’s chief bodyguard eyed the assault boats from the far end of the street. Perhaps these children could be persuaded to find more suitable entertainment. Though six Navy assault boats seemed a lot to discipline a baker’s dozen of unruly adolescents. He hailed the assault boats.

  “McModor here, from the Secretary’s Guard,” he sent. “Come to fetch the Sclerida boy?”

  There was no response.

  “I’m not reading anything off them,” said his second. “No hull signals, nothing.”

  “This doesn’t feel right.” McModor hit the send key again. “Lieutenant McModor of the Secretary’s Guard, hailing Naval assault boat, please respond.”

  The answer this time came from the boat’s guns.

  ###

  Two blocks over, another assault boat brought down Thistlewaite’s aircar without a single shot. The revelers were weak with apprehension as they saw the huge boats open their hatches.

  Not far away, Maytag did his best to get away and in a sudden blazing miscalculation slammed into the side of the building.

  Ahead, Wiley’s aircar wobbled and dropped down onto the street.

  Wiley sat, more dazed from the jarring impact than anything he had consumed earlier that evening. “McModor?” For once he was wishing the guard would show up. Yell at him, anything. Anything normal. But McModor was nowhere in sight and he became aware of the locals, watching, perhaps waiting for a chance to exact some vengeance. He fumbled with the harness release, his fingers refusing to cooperate. Finally, he broke free of the harness and scrambled out of the useless aircar. The girl who had been sitting with him followed on his heels.

  In the rear seat, Dov and Crisianne struggled to get free of the restraining harnesses.

  Half a block away, one assault boat had landed and a dozen men in Navy uniform came toward them, stun guns on their hips. From the hatch the long pointed beaks of laser cannon pointed out at the four young roisterers.

  “Come on, Bouriere,” said one of the men as he reached Wiley. “Sorry to do it this way, but we have to bring you in.” He took a firm hold on Wiley’s arm just above the elbow and began to lead Wiley toward the assault boat.

  Wiley blinked in disbelief at this treatment. “I’m the High Secretary’s son,” he began, and heard his voice rise sharply. He tried again. “I’m the High Secretary’s son.”

  “We know that,” said another one of the Navy men brusquely, escorting the girl who had been sitting beside Wiley in the aircar.

  Never before had Wiley had this announcement fail. He tried to draw himself up, but before he could get more than two words out, the man who held him said, “Look, son, that’s all changing. It’s changing right now. You might as well get used to it.” There was a hint of apology in the man’s voice.

  “Changing?” Wiley echoed, beginning to be deeply afraid.

  Nika was oddly calm, taking in these announcements as if she had expected to hear them.

  “What about Dov?” As Wiley spoke his friend’s name he looked around. Dov and Crisianne were being taken to another assault boat, also accompanied by armed guards. “Where are
you taking him? Why isn’t he with us?”

  “Look,” said another of the men. “You let us do our job, everything’ll be fine.”

  “But Dov—” Wiley protested.

  “We have orders,” said his escort. “Nothing personal.”

  They were almost at the assault boat, and the man leading the girl said, “Are we supposed to bring her, or leave her here?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted Wiley’s captor. “They didn’t say anything about her.” He blinked once. “We might as well bring her.”

  “What if they don’t want her?” asked the man guarding her.

  “Let them decide. It’s not up to us to figure them out.” He nudged Wiley toward the lowered steps. “Better get in. And nothing fancy. You can’t get out of here even if you want to.”

  Of that Wiley was absolutely certain. He thought for one heady moment of breaking away and running for safety. But there was no safety; if the Navy men didn’t catch him, the locals would. He made a gesture of acquiescence. “Sure.” He started to climb, his legs feeling unsteady.

  Behind him the girl started up the steps, her movements more graceful, more controlled than Wiley’s. She looked hard at the man who had led her, as if she wanted to remember his face.

  There were another twenty men in the assault boat, and they went about their chore of adjusting racks for Wiley and the girl, saying very little as they did. Then the hatch was closed and secured.

  Nika lost her footing as the straps were adjusted, and fell against Wiley.

  As she did, Wiley felt the sting of an injection. He stared at his arm where she had touched him, trying to convince himself he had imagined it. Why should she inject him? And what would she inject him with? The second question remained stuck in his mind like a splinter of ice refusing to melt.

  The engines bellowed and the assault car lifted into the air. Wiley could feel the back and forth movement as it maneuvered to avoid colliding with the other boats.

  Then there was a faintly pink fog filling the boat, smelling of rotting hay and unripe apples. Wiley could see that the fog came from something on the girl’s belt, from a strangely wrought cylinder Wiley had assumed was a piece of jewelry

  The Navy men noticed the fog about two seconds before they collapsed. One moment they were standing at their posts, and then they crumpled like marionettes with cut strings.

  Wiley held his breath, expecting to lose consciousness at any moment.

  The assault boat began to yaw.

  Nika unfastened the catches of her rack and hurried toward the pilot’s station. She dragged the pilot from his chair, dumping him on the deck before sliding into place. She grabbed the control bar with both hands, fighting to bring the assault boat back on course. Her eyes flicked over the instrument panel with the habit of familiarity.

  Staring at her, Wiley asked, “Who are you?”

  “Get out of the rack and give me a hand,” she said. “We’ve got to get clear of this place as quickly as possible.”

  “What’s going on?” Wiley fumbled with the rack harness. “What did you do to them?”

  “Poison gas. I gave you the antidote before,” she said, watching the forward screen with intense concentration.

  Wiley studied her for a moment. She seemed suddenly older, more a woman than the girls he knew. He was out of the rack now, but he hesitated to approach her. If only he knew who she was, or why she was here.

  “Get the co-pilot out of there and harness yourself in,” she commanded. “Now.”

  Wiley did as she ordered. He shoved the Navy pilot into a corner, thinking as he did that the woman must have some special reason for what she was doing. He wondered if she was working for his side—whichever side that was—or against his side. Was he free or was he a hostage?

  The communications board lit up and the other assault boat signaled them. “Anything wrong over there?”

  “Answer them,” said Nika. “Say we had a sheer.”

  Wiley found the switch and told the other boat they had a sheer.

  “Report status,” came back the response.

  Wiley looked at Nika, a little wildly. “Now what?”

  “Say uncertain.” Her pretty face was stern now, and Wiley thought, If I’m being kidnapped, at least I’m being kidnapped by a beautiful woman.

  “Uncertain,” he relayed.

  “Brace yourself.” She eased the huge ship up through the narrow canyon between buildings.

  The other assault boat came abreast of them, so close that the air rocked and boiled between the two boats.

  Nika nudged the assault boat to higher speeds. “We can’t fight here,” she muttered.

  The second assault boat grew nearer, and Wiley noticed that a third had turned to follow them.

  They raced through the streets, moving away from the most densely populated part of the city. Now the buildings were less tightly packed. With the increased maneuvering room, the second assault boat brought its laser cannon into firing position.

  Nika fired all four of her cannons directly into the inertial guidance pod of the second boat. She took advantage of the chaos to put more distance between herself and the third assault boat.

  “We’re getting away,” said Wiley, not sure if this was supposed to please him or not.

  “No,” said Nika. “There’re another five boats out there. We just bought a little time, that’s all.” She set most of the controls on automatic and got out of the pilot’s harness. “Come on.”

  Wiley stared at her. “What?”

  “Come on, let’s go. We’ve got to get out while we can. They’ll cut us off or shoot us down in another two minutes if we don’t leave now. Get moving.” She dragged a full parachute pack out of the locker and tugged on the harness. “Hurry up.”

  “But—” Wiley protested. Surely the assault boat was safer than a parachute.

  “They’re going to start firing on us any second now,” she told him bluntly as she started to the hatch release. “I’ve got a smoke canister rigged; we’ll have a little cover while we drop.”

  “Uh—” said Wiley.

  She reached out and tugged him toward the hatch. “There’s no time, Bouriere.”

  Already the third assault boat was getting closer. He nodded and started to reach for a second parachute.

  “No time,” said Nika as she threw the hatch open. She locked her arms around Wiley and secured him with the rescue latch.

  She stepped out into nothing as the assault boat began to pour out two colors of smoke.

  The air buffeted them as they fell, and they rocked violently as the first of the two ’chutes opened. Nika secured the control shrouds; they slid between two buildings and out of the line of sight of the pursuing assault boats.

  Behind them an explosion blossomed.

  As they neared the ground, Nika noticed that they had not yet moved beyond the city limits. She swore.

  “What’s the matter?” demanded Wiley. He paled as they fell past the side of a building. He thought he could count the bricks, if he’d had time.

  “We’re still inside the city,” she said, shouting to be heard against the rush of the wind. “If I hadn’t had to outrun that second boat, we’d be outside the limits.”

  “And?” Wiley asked.

  “I’ve missed the drop point,” she said, and swore with a thoroughness any Navy officer would envy.

  They were almost on the ground.

  Wiley still had no idea who she was.

  Chapter 4

  Lieutenant Chaney was muttering again.

  “What is it?” asked Tira, feeling slightly dazed. As they were floating down the dropshaft, she had let her mind drift so she wouldn’t have to think about the future.

  He held up a hand, listening. “Help. My uncle. We’re to skip the guard room and go to the sub-basement garage. Someone will meet us.”

  “Your uncle?” asked Tira dubiously.

  “Commander Kenigern Chaney.”

  “Ah,” said T
ira, feeling no wiser. “And what do we do in the sub-basement?”

  “Wait,” responded Chaney. “For reinforcements.”

  They fell past several floors, Tira growing uneasy. Finally, one stop before the sub-basement, she grabbed at Chaney’s arm.

  “We’re getting off here.” She tugged and they stepped out of the shaft.

  “What? Why? Uncle Ken said . . .”

  “I know what Uncle Ken said. But Uncle Ken isn’t here and I am.” Tira glared at Chaney. “Whose rescue is this, anyway?”

  “I thought it was mine, of you,” grumbled Chaney under his breath. “Now what, Demoiselle? We still have to get down to the rendezvous.”

  Tira wasn’t so sure about that, but she wasn’t sure what else to do. At least her change in plans would give them a chance to see the “reinforcements” before they saw her.

  “We can walk down the stairs.”

  “All right, then.” He looked around. The dropshaft fell in the middle of one wall. “Left or right?” he asked. “There are fire stairs in each corner. Just pick one.”

  “Left,” Tira said, and set off briskly. She felt exposed under the bright ceiling lights.

  They’d reached the stairwell and started down when a noise on the floor below caught Chaney’s attention. He motioned Tira to be still and ran the rest of the way down. Leaning up against the stairwell wall, he tried to see through the window in the door.

  “Dear God,” he whispered in shock. He raced back up the stairs, grabbing Tira’s arm as he passed her.

  “Cernians,” he hissed. “Dozens of them.”

  “Looking for us,” Tira said. She let his hand stay on her arm.

  “Looking for you. We’ll have to try something else.” His lips continued to move as he subvocalized instructions to his AID.

  They were not quite two full flights up when a door opened and a Treasury guard entered the stairwell above them. He shouted, lifting his gun to fire.

  Chaney shoved Tira back against the wall, out of the direct line of fire. Pulling his pistol from its holster, he returned fire. The Treasury guard fell, blocking open the door. A wild thought ran through Chaney’s mind: move the guard, close the door, head up the stairs again . . . but he could hear more guards coming closer already.